Primeval
Click for meditationRegarding "Primeval"
In the great 1969 movie,
“Paint Your Wagon,”
Which is about the wild and
Crazy California gold rush
Of 1849, there is the
Fabulous song, “They Call
The Wind Mariah.” The
Lyrics are powerful, but yet
Hauntingly lonely, and they set
The framework and tempo
For the screenplay starring
Lee Marvin, Clint Eastwood,
And Jean Seberg. It was
A rough, tumultuous
Crossing in 1849 to reach
California, and once there
It was equally rough
And tumultuous to survive.
In the movie, the wind and the
Music were always in the
Background as if they were
Part of the cast. It struck
Me how primeval the wind
Was portrayed, and ever
Since, in any storm, I always
Will look up at the tops
Of trees and “call the
Wind Mariah,” as if
Addressing a supernatural
Force, one that comes
From and simultaneously
Represents Creation,
And wields the contradictory
Attributes of incredible
Power, terror, and the
Magnificent fist of Yahweh
Spreading love and hope and
Beauty upon the land …
Leo Carroll
January 15, 2019
Up my eyes strain to the tops of
Their spires, feeling from out of my primal past
What I cannot begin to plumb nor
Describe. Bend and moan they
Do, to the roar of wind howling
From out of the womb of the universe,
Right here, right now, this place,
This hope, this cave mouth, this new
Millennium, this old ice age, with the same
Shudder, the same words, the
Same stab of terror, and then
Tomorrow, the same sunrise chorus.
Ode to Emily Dickinson
("My Wars Are Laid Away in Books")
Click for meditationRegarding "Ode to Emily Dickinson"
What a wondrous poet this
Prim, pint-of-a-person, Emily Dickinson, was!
Tiny in stature, she had an immense,
Phenomenal mind, and poured
Everything inside her into fully-blossomed
Verse, and from out of her genius
Came what is widely regarded to be the
Finest poetry ever written in the
United States. She lived a secluded life
In nineteenth century Amherst, Massachusetts,
And did most of her writing from a
Small bedroom on the second
Floor of her home, where from a
Miniscule desk she peered out
Her bedroom window and
Wrote her poetry. She would
Then take each poem, sort it by
Topic, and then store it by appropriate
Folder or “book”, as she would
Call it, in her dresser drawer.
This book of like-minded poems
Would lie wrapped in a ribbon as if a
Gift delayed, and would rest in the dark…
She considered her collection of poetry
To be extremely private, and referred to many of
The poems as her “wars”. She never
Intended they be read by the general public.
Her poems reflected what was in
Her mind, and she did not want some of
Them to see the light of day. On her
Deathbed, she asked that her poems be
Destroyed. They were not.
Leo Carroll
September 2, 2018
I don’t believe people
Understood why you spent so much
Time in exquisite solitude…
They knew naught of the fires which
Raged within you, and how into your flesh the
Coals like thorns could burrow.
All they knew was your
Reclusive nature, and how it
Seemed so much quieter than what
They were used. They knew nothing of the
Wars you fought, and how
The cannon and blast could only be
Calmed with a stylus to suture
Your open wounds.
The Word of Autism
(The Gospel of John 1:1-3)
Click for meditationRegarding "The Word of Autism"
I have repeatedly tried to
Write this meditation,
But it has resisted me, and
I have set aside version after version.
And so I try again…and
Suffice it to say that the
Word, the Word of God, the
Word of Life, which
Breathes upon all
Of heaven and earth,
That Word, this Word, is the
Giver of all life, including
Autistic life…
This Word is an
Absolute mystery,
Unimaginable, unspeakable,
Unexplainable, but is
Somehow implanted in
Humanity’s heart
As a matter of faith. And
The sweet children of
Autism are similarly a
Mystery, and as an
Integral part of Creation,
They, too, follow their
Own pilgrim’s path, where
They are compassionately cradled
In the arms of the Word,
Listened to, hugged, until like
The bleating “baa” of an innocent lamb,
They are placed in the
Green pasture grass of the
Sheepfold and home.
Leo Carroll
May 28, 2018
The Word, which from the beginning
Was with God, and was God, and was Witness
When all Creation was sown
Upon the seas and heavens, that
Word, that God, that Spirit, spoke and
Still speaks in a voice unable by our primitive
Ears to be heard. The Word speaks a
Message not possible for our limited minds
To comprehend. The Word’s language is not defined
By our alphabet, nor are the connections
Between the Word’s syllables and consonants
Made by synapses which fit into our sentences…
This Word does not communicate with us on
Our level, having verbal powers which extend beyond
Fathom and parable, leaving us able to only
Quake in tremble and awe. This Word, by our own
Feeble lexicon, might even in error or ignorance
Be viewed as mute or speechless, but
It is this Word which has created in one
Single breath the human image and
Form, and it is this Word which has placed
God’s own likeness amongst the infinite
Countenances of the universe –
And this likeness includes the silent,
Mysterious world inhabited by the
Sometimes speechless and sometimes
Mute, innocent lambs of autism…
Gospel of John 1: 1-3
Click for meditationRegarding "Gospel of John 1: 1-3"
The concept of
Creation still lies beyond the grasp
Of all human understanding.
All scientific efforts to
Satisfactorily explain how
Creation happened still languish
Behind the door of a
Limited ability to peer
Into the moments before the
Roar of the “Big Bang.”
Every time something is
Discovered, or an inroad is
Made peeking through
The keyhole of what appears a
Physics mystery, something
Further then looms as needing to be
Explained or understood …
Mankind’s brain falters before
The throne of incomplete
Knowledge. All cultures, past
And present, have tried
To make sense of
Creation as seen by an
Examination of old oral traditions
And ancient texts, and
Modern efforts are now
Seen taking form in the
Starship of the world’s largest
Particle collider, the Hadron
Collider, on the Swiss/French border.
Yet, we still don’t truly
Know, on a cosmic scale,
Much of anything … That is
Why faith still perseveres
As a salve upon the
Overwhelmed neurons
Of our brains.
Leo Carroll
January 19, 2019
The spoken Word which
Created the universe, the Word
We bow in wonder before
But cannot spell, the
Word whose feet we washed
In perfume, the Word
Who with us in the Upper
Room dwelt, the Word we can
Neither say nor hear, the
Word in Gethsemane
Who while we slept knelt,
That Word I don’t understand,
But that Word reached down
And became my brother,
Through an uncommonly
Blessed woman in the straw of
The stable of Man.
Slate-Colored Juncos
Click for meditationRegarding "Slate-Colored Juncos"
One long ago
Winter day, a mix of
Grey and overcast and my
Mood the same,
I was peering out my
Window at one of my
Rock gardens, and
As I was doing this,
I noticed the barest
Of movement
In the curled-up,
Dormant grass.
I thought at first it
Was a single bird, but I
Soon realized it was
A tiny flock of
Small, blue-grey
Birds, sparrow size
Maybe, but birds
Which I had not
Noticed in my garden
Before. They kept
Inching their
Way closer to my
House, and their heads
Were vigorously
Bobbing as they
Pecked away
At some invisible
Source of nutrient.
Before I knew
It, they reached
The foundation of
My house and were
Right below the very window
I was looking out, and
Finding sustenance,
Where 30 minutes before
I had thought all was
Cold and grey!
Leo Carroll
January 29, 2019
Little blue-grey
Birds inch their way
Towards my house,
Their beaks to the ground,
Their hope to fill
Their mouths.
Their color seems
To be of the sea’s winter
Sheen – cold and
Hard – but I believe
Their tiny beaks feed a
Gentle breed.